


take a sip of my secret potion

by bluejayys



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alex is not a hockey player but Brendan still is, Curses, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayys/pseuds/bluejayys
Summary: Brendan’s gonna get to know Alex-- maybe even work up the courage to ask him out on a date.Even if he has to get cursed over and over to do it.----In which Alex is a magician and Brendan is an idiot.





	take a sip of my secret potion

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is silly and ridiculous but I haven't written anything in a long time AND I owed meerminne a very late birthday present, so. Voila. Sorry if this is a bit of a subpar showing, but it was fun to write again after months of having zero inspiration.
> 
> The title comes from Black Magic by Little Mix because they're the bomb dot com. 
> 
> Special thanks to C for being the best beta. 
> 
> If you Googled yourself and found this fic I would say 1. why do you have an ao3 account oh my god, and 2. don't read this shit. Back away. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Brendan isn’t too concerned after the first hand injury. Like, yeah, it sucks, but he’s a hockey player. Shit happens. He’s pissed at Boychuk and he hates physical therapy, but he gets to spend time with his mom and binge watch Scandal, so. It could be worse. 

 

Once, after all, is an accident. 

 

He’s frustrated after Weber’s fucking one-timer fractures his fingers. Like, what the fuck, Shea. It’s worse when it’s a teammate that injures you (and damn, it’s still so weird to think of Weber as his teammate; he keeps turning around in the locker room to joke around with P.K. and he’s not there. It stings more every time). So it’s more doctor’s visits, more physical therapy. He expands his Shonda Rhimes obsession to How to Get Away With Murder, and then backtracks to Grey’s Anatomy when he finishes that. 

 

Twice is just a coincidence. 

 

He might have had an inkling that there was some sort of mischief afoot, but he doesn’t know for certain until they play the Rangers during playoffs. It’s the third game in the series, and the win-- the Cup-- is so close that he can practically taste it. Not that he would know what the Cup would taste like-- victory, maybe, whatever that tastes like. P.K. always said that victory tasted like the finest champagne, but Brendan isn’t nearly as classy. 

 

Secretly, he always thought victory tasted a little like Cool Ranch Doritos. 

 

The game’s tied one to one, with five minutes left in the second. Zuccarello takes a chance and slaps the puck towards the goal, and Brendan knows Pricey’s got it, he really does… but what if he doesn’t? What if this is the moment that fucks them up? That makes them lose? 

 

What if they lose their shot at the Cup because Brendan didn’t react? 

 

So he blocks the shot. He feels the bones in his fingers crack back unnaturally, a pain so horribly familiar that he knows, before the trainers even take off his glove, that his playoff run is done. 

 

One is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. But three times?

 

That’s a motherfucking pattern. 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


“You’re cursed,” Patches says the next day during their team meeting, staring at the cast on Brendan’s hand with resigned disappointment. “Obviously.”

 

“For at least two years,” Pricey agrees. “Since the first hand injury.”

 

“But who would curse me?” Brendan asks. “Everybody loves me!”

 

Everyone laughs. Like, really hard. Brendan...didn’t think he was telling a joke. 

 

“Uh, everyone in Boston hates you,” Beau says, snickering. He pauses, thoughtful. “Huh. Hey, maybe one of the Bruins cursed you!”

 

Everyone turns to look at Julien, who shakes his head insistently. 

 

“Don’t look at me,” he says, hands raised in a pacifying gesture. “I wasn’t involved in this. Zdeno and Patrice wouldn’t stand for anyone cursing the opposite team, anyways. They always shut down any talk of that.”

 

“Wait, it was actually talked about?” Beau asks, looking nervous. “I was kidding!”

 

“I don’t think it was a Bruin,” Brendan says. “Besides, Marchy’s the only one on the team with any magic and he and I are bros now. Also, he’s only got enough juice to, like. Levitate a beer pong ball. Which is cool, but… not this.” He holds up his mangled hand, wincing. 

 

“So who else hates you?” Pleky asks.

 

“Every goalie in the league except for me,” Pricey says dryly. Brendan rolls his eyes. 

 

“I don’t care who did it,” he says petulantly. “But if I’ve got a curse I want it gone.”

 

Everyone starts offering suggestions, talking over each other rapidly. Go to the police, go to the hospital, call up the Penguins and see if they’d be willing to let them borrow the magician that they said wasn’t on their payroll but everyone knew totally was. 

 

But then Jordie Benn, of all people, clears his throat. Everyone falls silent, which was impressive-- Brendan can never shut the team up, and he has an A. Brendan wonders, enviously, what Jordie’s secret is.

 

Maybe it’s the beard. 

 

“I might know a guy,” Jordie says, looking a little shifty. “My brother, ah… he had some trouble. With his hip? And it… wasn’t totally natural, if you know what I mean.” 

 

“I see,” Brendan says, heart beating very fast. “And would your brother… recommend this person?”

 

Jordie grins, and it transforms his whole face. He’s been kind of distant, since he’s been traded on the team, and Brendan suddenly realizes that maybe that had been because he’d, like. Been sad and missed his brother. Which-- Brendan can relate. Everyone on the team knows he calls his mom, like. Almost every day. 

 

“Jamie said he did an okay job,” Jordie says, still smiling. “Which doesn’t seem like a ringing endorsement, but that means he’s really fucking great in Jamie-speak.”

 

“That settles it, then,” Julien says, making the executive decision. “Where does this magician live? Gallagher is out for the season, obviously, and it would be a better use of his time to get this taken care of now than watch the games from the press box.”

 

“Actually,” Jordie says, scratching his beard. “I’m like ninety-percent certain that he has a shop in Montreal.” 

 

“That’s convenient,” Brendan says slowly. Jordie must sense his trepidation because he smiles comfortingly. 

 

“I think he’s got shops in a lot of cities,” he says. “But, uh… it’s all really the same shop? There’s just a lot of different entrances to the same store, but they’re all over. Or something.” Jordie scrunches up his face. “Jamie tried to explain it to me, but then he started talking about pocket dimensions and I gave up and took a nap instead of trying to figure it out.” 

 

“Okay,” Brendan says. “Uh, as long as nothing weird went down while your brother was there, I guess I’m good.” 

 

Jordie snorts. “This is my brother we’re talking about,” he smirks. “He never goes down.”

 

It’s not the best Jamie Benn joke-- and damn, did he have a field day looking up funny shit on twitter when that glorious faux-pas occurred-- but it makes Brendan laugh. Jordie looks cautiously pleased, and Brendan makes a vow to try to hang out with him more. 

 

Jordie’s a pretty cool dude. 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


The magician’s shop is… not what Brendan expected.

 

He was thinking it would be something vaguely creepy, like a decrepit old house with a creaky porch, caked with cobwebs. Or a cottage in the woods, with a wild garden and two-headed chickens pecking away in the yard. Something a little more, you know. Harry Potter. 

 

He was not expecting his GPS to take him to what looked to be, at first glance, an artisanal cheese shop in a strip mall. 

 

Brendan wonders, wildly, if Jordie was just playing an awful trick on him. He likes cheese as much as the next guy (maybe more than-- there were several times when he was injured that he would just eat a block of cheese for dinner, like a heathen), but he’s really fucking sick of painful, broken fingers, and even the finest cheddar cheese isn’t gonna cut it.

 

He gets out of the car anyways. 

 

The sign on the door says GALCHENYUK FAMILY CHEESE SHOP in a sophisticated font, and there’s a display of fancy cheese boards and bottles of expensive wine in the window. There’s a sign on the door that says “We serve real Wisconsin cheese!” 

 

“I can’t believe Jordie sent me to a cheese shop,” Brendan mutters darkly, scrubbing his uninjured hand over his face. “Fucking bearded bastard.”

 

He takes a step towards his car, planning to leave. But then, just as he’s turning his head away, he sees something out of the corner of his eye-- something that is decidedly not cheese. 

 

There’s a cauldron in the window. 

 

Brendan jerks his head back to stare at the shop. Now that he’s staring at it straight on again, he sees that it was just a large wheel of parmigiano cheese, and he feels stupid for getting his hopes up. But then he turns his head again, and very carefully looks at the window display out of the corner of his eye. 

 

There’s the cauldron again. Clear as day.

 

“What the fuck,” Brendan says, delighted. He keeps turning his head back and forth to see the magic at work, and he only realizes he probably looks like a lunatic after he sees some old ladies walking into the stationery store next door give him a wide berth and judgemental, distrustful looks. He snickers a little as he offers them a jaunty wave. 

 

There’s no cheese in the window when he turns back to look at the shop. 

 

Brendan startles. The cauldron’s there, along with some neat piles of books and old-looking jewelry. There are weird vials, too, filled with liquids of all colors-- sparkling silver, neon green, dull brown. There’s one vial that isn’t holding liquid at all, but something that looks like tiny bolts of electricity, bouncing off the glass like miniature lightning strikes, and one that doesn’t have a color at all but reminds Brendan, for some strange reason, of PK’s smile. 

 

It’s a magic shop. Holy shit. 

 

The sign on the window that bragged about served real Wisconsin cheese is still there, but as Brendan glances at it he’s startled to see the letters start to melt off the page. Then, as he’s gaping at it, new letters start to appear, written by an invisible hand.

 

**_Stop loitering and come inside,_ ** it says.  **_You’re scaring people._ **

 

Brendan takes a deep breath. Blinks a few times, to make sure that he’s not hallucinating. “Are… are you talking to me?” he asks dumbly, pointing at himself. He can’t tell-- the sign isn’t using emojis, unfortunately-- but he gets the distinct impression that whoever is talking to him rolls their eyes.

 

**_Unfortunately,_ ** the sign says. Brendan can’t believe he’s being insulted by a piece of paper.  **_Are you coming in or what?_ **

 

“Unfortunately,” Brendan mutters. Now that the first wave of awe has worn off, he feels… a little nervous, honestly. Magic is cool and all, but Brendan’s been dealing with the (painful) result of a curse for two years now. He’s not scared. He just has… a healthy respect for magic-users. 

 

Yeah. Totally. Not scared at all. 

 

He puts his hand on the doorknob, half expecting it to shock him or something when he turns it, but it’s cool and solid against his palm. There’s the cheerful jingling of a bell as he opens the door, and a pretty girl sitting behind the counter reading a fashion magazine. 

 

Brendan relaxes a little bit. This isn’t scary. In fact, it seems totally mundane and normal and… 

 

Wait. 

 

“Did you just turn the page with your mind?!” Brendan asks, horrified. The girl behind the counter smiles at him sweetly. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says innocently. She’s got an accent that Brendan can’t quite place, and he’s momentarily distracted trying to figure out where it’s from that he almost misses the page of her magazine flip again, seemingly of its own accord.

 

“Oh my God,” he says. “You did. You turned the page with your mind.” 

 

She snorts out a laugh. “This is a magic shop-- what did you expect?” 

 

A cat jumps up onto the counter suddenly by her elbow, startling Brendan so badly that he leaps back in alarm. The girl smiles at him again-- wow, he must seem like such a loser right now-- and then turns to the cat. It meows at her, insistent, and she rolls her eyes. 

 

“Fine, fine,” she mutters, waving the cat away as she turns to look at Brendan again. “How can we help you today?”

 

“Um,” he says, a little dumbfounded. “Uh. Yes. My teammates think I’m cursed.” He holds up his injured hand, wrapped in bandages, and wiggles it around as delicately as he can. “This is the third hand injury in two years. And like, I am in a high-risk career and all, but seriously? This shit ain’t normal.”

 

“I see,” she says. She’s suddenly all business, walking around the counter to inspect his hand. He holds it out for her but she doesn’t touch it; she just squints in the direction of his wrist, muttering what sounds like Russian under her breath. “Yup. You’re cursed. A nasty one, too.” 

 

“I’m so surprised,” Brendan deadpans. “So, uh, can you fix it?”

 

“I can’t,” she says, and then giggles when his face falls. Which is kind of mean, all things considered. Like, way to kick a guy when he’s literally fucking cursed. 

 

Brendan is totally going to give her shop a scathing review on Yelp. 

 

“Calm down, sad boy,” she says, amused. “I can’t help you personally; my specialty is in stuff like good luck charms, or protection. My brother is the one who deals with curses.” 

 

“Oh, thank God,” Brendan breathes. “Uh, is he here? Or do I need to like… make an appointment?” He frowns, confused. “Do… do you guys need to see my insurance card or something?”

 

“You’re adorable,” the girl says, though her tone of voice makes it clear that she sees him as the pathetic kind of adorable, not the sexy kind. Which… Brendan is honestly not too surprised by. “Just wait here. He’ll show his face eventually.” 

 

She walks into the back room, waving at Brendan jauntily before she shuts the door. Brendan’s left standing in the shop, awkward and alone. 

 

“Meow.”

 

Well. Maybe not totally alone. 

 

“Hey there, little buddy,” Brendan says, holding out his hand cautiously for the cat to sniff. It’s a weirdly big cat, and its elegant long legs and spots make it look like something that should be roaming the African savannah, not chilling out in a Canadian suburb. Brendan half expects the cat to like, bite off his thumb or something, but it just politely sniffs his fingers. The cat’s eyes are a weird color-- not green or brown or yellow, like he expects cat’s eyes to be, but a bright blue. 

 

It seems nice enough, but Brendan pulls back and tucks his hand in his pocket. Just in case. 

 

“Are you magic, too?” Brendan asks conversationally. He should probably be concerned that he’s talking to a fucking cat, but hey, he’s in a magic shop. These walls have undoubtedly seen weirder things. “Maybe you’re someone’s familiar. That’s a thing, right?”

 

The cat just stares at him with those eerie eyes. They look at each other for what seems like a lifetime before Brendan realizes that 1. He is having a staring contest with a cat, and 2. The cat is definitely winning. 

 

Brendan blinks. The cat meows victoriously. 

 

“Allllrighty then,” Brendan says slowly, turning his head away from the cat to look at the rest of the shop. “This is awesome. I’m talking to a cat in a magic shop and the dude who is supposed to fix my hand is probably going to just murder me or turn me into a frog instead. Great. What a wonderful day.”

 

“I’m not going to murder you,” the cat says. Brendan shrieks. 

 

The cat isn’t a cat anymore. The cat is a tall, muscular bearded man, smirking at Brendan as he leans against the counter. His eyes are very, very blue. Brendan feels a bit weak in the knees… and it’s not due to the shock of witnessing a cat suddenly transform into a human being. 

 

A very attractive human being.

 

Fuuuuuck. 

 

“That’s nice,” Brendan says faintly. “Um. What just happened?”

 

“Magic,” the man says with a shrug. “What did you expect?”

 

“Right, of course, silly me,” Brendan says, shaking his head. “I, a completely non-magical human being, should totally have to deal with horrible curses and cat-men and whatever the fuck is happening with that broom over there.” Brendan waves his uninjured hand in the direction of the broom and dustpan that have suddenly started cleaning, seemingly of their own volition and without anyone picking them up.

 

The man has the grace to look a bit sheepish.

 

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “That’s Charlie. He’s our ghost.”

 

“Your  _ ghost _ ?!” Brendan hisses. “You have a fucking ghost?!” 

 

“He’s friendly,” the man assures him. 

 

“Of course he is,” Brendan says weakly. The man gives him a sympathetic look.

 

“Do you need a second?” he asks, giving Brendan a worried glance like he’s afraid he’s going to pass out. “Water?”

 

“I need a shot,” Brendan grumbles. “And a cure for whatever the fuck is happening to my hand.”

 

The man smiles. 

 

“Well. You’ve certainly come to the right place.”

 

* * *

 

 

The magician’s name is Alex Galchenyuk. 

 

He takes Brendan to the back room, which turns out to be a small kitchenette filled with some comfortable-looking furniture. He makes Brendan sit down and then fiddles around with a kettle until he comes back with a steaming mug of perfectly ordinary tea.

 

“I’d give you some tequila,” he says apologetically. “But I just remembered that it might be enchanted, and I’m not sure that you’d want to deal with that.”

 

“Good call,” Brendan murmurs, taking the tea gratefully. Alex sits down on the chair across from him and stares, with those weird unblinking eyes.

 

It’s much hotter when he does that as a human.

 

“So, how can I help you?” Alex asks. Brendan holds out his injured hand.

 

“I’m cursed,” he says mournfully. “This is my third hand injury in two years.”

 

“Well, you’re a hockey player,” Alex says reasonably. “Injuries happen.”

 

“Yeah,” Brendan says, before pausing. He narrows his eyes. “Did… did you know I was a hockey player from some magic-mojo thing?”

 

“Uh, no,” Alex says. “I’m just a hockey fan.”

 

“Oh,” Brendan says, a little surprised. He recovers quickly, though, and put on his more flirtatious smile. “So… am I your favorite hockey player?”

 

Alex snorts.

 

“Definitely not,” he says, crushing all of Brendan’s hopes and dreams. Damn, the cute ones are always so  _ mean. _

 

Brendan refuses to admit that it makes him like him even more. 

 

“Damn,” Brendan says, still grinning. “I was hoping I could convince you to accept my autograph as payment for your cursebreaking.” 

 

“No, we only accept payments of first-born children,” Alex says sarcastically. Brendan laughs at that, hard, but then trails off a little awkwardly, looking at Alex with a worried expression. Alex looks up at the ceiling as if he’s praying for patience. “Yes, that was a joke. Calm down.” 

 

“Sorry,” Brendan says. “I’m… a little nervous about this. I’ve never really been around magic before, except for this.” He waves his hand around in the air. “And, uh, it has obviously not been the best experience, even if I didn’t know it was magic for a long time.”

 

“Understandable,” Alex nods. He rolls up his sleeves-- holy forearms, Batman-- and holds both his hands out, palms up. “May I?”

 

Brendan places his hands in his, a little uncertainly, but Alex immediately starts inspecting them, so it was probably the right move. Brendan has never given his hands much thought, aside from what they can do for him on the ice, but he’s extremely conscious of every bitten nail and callus and scar with Alex looking at them so carefully. It’s… intimate, honestly, in the most bizarre way, and Brendan feels flushed and edgy by the time that Alex looks up at him sharply.

 

“This is a nasty curse,” he finally says, and Brendan is torn between being ecstatic that he’s got a solution and pissed off that someone would curse him in the first place. “It’s a bad luck curse on both hands, with some specific alterations thrown in.”

 

“Alterations?” Brendan asks. Alex nods.

 

“There are some very basic spells out there,” he says slowly. “Uh, kind of generic, one-size-fits all type of things. Anyone with enough magic and the ability to Google could find them and cast them.” 

 

“I see,” Brendan says, though he doesn’t really at all. “Tell me more.”

 

“It takes a more skilled magician to put their own twist to spells,” Alex explains. “The one on you is centered specifically on your hands… and it’s only activated when you’re on the ice.”

 

Brendan pauses and lets that sink in.

 

“That fucking shithead,” he says, furious. “They wanted me to get injured while playing.”

 

“That’s what it seems like,” Alex says apologetically. “But I can fix it. It’s not nearly as complicated as some bad luck curses I’ve seen from hockey players.”

 

Brendan squints at him. He knows Jordie’s brother had come here for his old man hip thing, but he’s terribly curious. Alex must see the look on his face because he frowns. 

 

“Patient magician privileges are a thing that exist, you know,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone about your case, either.” 

 

“Okay,” Brendan says. “So, what do I need to do to get this fucker broken?”

 

Alex smiles. That, combined with what he says next, is so devastating that Brendan is one hundred percent certain that he will never be the same again.

 

“First? You need to take your shirt off.”

 

* * *

 

 

Getting a bad luck curse broken, as it turns out, involves having a giant Russian dude who looks vaguely like the second cousin of a werewolf paint all over Brendan’s back and arms and chest and abs with a weird, sticky black paint. It’s not what Brendan was expecting. 

 

Alex rolls his eyes when Brendan voices this opinion. 

 

“I’m not Russian,” he says mechanically, like this is something he’s had to tell people a thousand times. “I’m American.”

 

Brendan shoots him a surprised glance and then, seeing that Alex is on his knees in front of him drawing looping symbols on his abs with frightening intensity, realizes that looking at him is a  _ really bad fucking idea _ and goes back to staring at the ceiling and thinking of his grandma. “Your accent says otherwise, my dude.”

 

“My accent doesn’t change the fact that I was born in America,” Alex says snidely. He’s so close now that Brendan can feel puffs of breath against the sensitive skin of his stomach. “Hey, I think I’m done here.”

 

“Oh, are you?” Brendan says. He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or bummed that the torture is over. “So… is that it?” 

 

“Almost,” Alex says, and then reaches up and pokes Brendan on the nose. He doesn’t say “boop” like Brendan would have, but his ridiculous blue eyes are dancing like this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him all day. Brendan opens his mouth to bitch about not being a cat or a baby or having a boopable nose, but then the paint covering his body like… shivers. It starts disappearing-- no,  _ fucking sinking into his skin _ \-- and then it’s gone, leaving Brendan shirtless and confused and, honestly, a little weirded out.

 

“What,” Brendan says. “The fuck.”

 

“Your curse is broken,” Alex says with a shrug. “Don’t worry, there aren’t usually any side effects to this.”

 

“Usually,” Brendan repeats. “Right. Awesome. So the likelihood of my growing gills because of this is slim to none. Excellent.”

 

“You won’t grow gills,” Alex scoffs. “Your eyebrows might fall off, but that’s only happened… maybe twice.”

 

Brendan can’t help but laugh, because the mental image of his face without eyebrows is genuinely terrifying and also a little hilarious. “I’d rather lose my eyebrows than break my hand again,” he admits. “But hey, your bedside manner needs some work, you know? You’re not very comforting.”

 

Alex smirks. “I haven’t had any complaints about my bedside manner before,” he says. Brendan’s stomach flips. “But I’ll take it under advisement.”

 

“Well, righto,” Brendan says weakly, and then immediately wants to kick himself in his own face because who the hell says “righto,” goddammit. He’s usually smoother than this, but the whole magical bearded handsome man thing has totally thrown him off his game. “So, uh… thank you. Seriously. I was really getting sick of not being able to play.” 

 

“It was no problem,” Alex says. He hesitates. “A… a lot of people were getting really sick of not getting to watch you play.” 

 

“Oh really?” 

 

“Not me. I’m not much of a Habs fan. Just… some people.”

 

“Sure,” Brendan says gleefully. “I’m totally not your favorite hockey player or anything.” Alex’s cheeks look a bit red under his beard.

 

“Anna will help you check out at the front register,” he says, a little stiffly. 

 

“Yeah,” Brendan says. He doesn’t really want to leave, but he doesn’t have any real reason to stick around anymore. “Uh… thanks again.”

 

Alex’s eyes soften a bit. “Don’t mention it,” he says. “And hey… if you ever get cursed again, you know where to find me.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Habs lose to the Rangers and Brendan goes home to spend at least part of the summer with his family, but he can’t stop thinking about Alex Galchenyuk.

 

He regrets not asking him out on a date (does he even like guys?) or at least asking him for his number. He wonders if it would be weird if he wandered back to the shop whenever he gets back to Montreal and thinks it probably would. Ugh. 

 

Wait.

 

Alex had said to come back if he ever got cursed again. That would give Brendan an excellent reason to go back and see him-- Alex is the only real professional magician that he knows. Not that Brendan wants to get cursed, obviously, but… he’d done some reading, and curses don’t necessarily have to cause bodily harm. 

 

Actually. 

 

It doesn’t even need to be a curse.

  
  


* * *

 

 

His sister’s boyfriend has some magical abilities, and agrees readily to magically dye Brendan’s hair Habs blue. 

 

“Not the weirdest magical request I’ve gotten,” he says genially when Brendan asks. “I used to live in Edmonton. Those people you see sometimes who have painted their entire bodies orange and blue? Yeah. Not always paint.” 

 

Brendan gets a few weird looks at the airport before he remembers to put his hat on, and when he lands in Montreal he’s tempted to drive immediately Alex’s. But he smells like airplane and has all his suitcases with him, so he reluctantly goes home, showers, and puts on jeans and a shirt that make him look less like he’s spent a good portion of his summer sleeping on his parent’s couch and forgetting to shower. 

 

Alex is a human when he walks into the shop. He and Anna look up when Brendan walks through the door and they both smile-- side by side, Brendan definitely sees the resemblance. Brendan pauses for a second before taking his hat off with a dramatic flourish; he’s rewarded with twin horrified expressions.

 

“You look like a wannabe punk rocker,” Anna says. “And I mean that in the least complimentary way possible.”

 

“I got in a fight with my sister’s boyfriend and this was his revenge,” Brendan says cheerfully. “Can you fix it, or do I need to shave my head?”

 

“Please don’t shave your head,” Alex says quickly. “And yes, I can fix it. Just… put your hat back on.”

 

* * *

 

 

Brendan has to wash his hair in something that smells like minty gasoline, but he also gets to spend half an hour bickering with Alex, who is just as handsome and bearded and prickly as before. Brendan leaves the Galchenyuk’s shop with a bottle of the gross shampoo and a wonderful, terrible idea.

 

He’s gonna get to know Alex-- maybe even work up the courage to ask him out on a date. 

 

Even if he has to get cursed over and over to do it. 

 

* * *

 

 

As it turns out, it is surprisingly easy to for Brendan to find people who agree to curse him. He would probably be offended by this, if it didn’t suit his purpose.

 

He has a few buddies from Team Canada who have some magical aptitude, and when he explains what’s going on they all agree to cast some small, harmless spells on him. Nothing that will affect his hockey or his health-- just dumb things. Ryan Murray compels him to sing Christina Aguilera songs whenever he is called by his full name twice in a row; Boone Jenner gives him a mild case of acne. Even the ever-responsible McJesus agrees to help out, which surprises Brendan to no end. 

 

“I like a good love story,” Davey says, and then Brendan wakes up the next morning with a very unfortunate Edmonton Oilers tramp stamp. 

 

Connor McDavid is a little shit.

 

Alex seems pleased whenever Brendan comes in, if a touch concerned that he is getting cursed on an alarmingly regular basis. Suspicious, too.

 

“I’m a pest on the ice,” Brendan says innocently whenever Alex brings it up. “You’ve seen me play, I’m super annoying.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “It’s probably the goalies.”

 

“You’re a pest off the ice, too,” Alex says. But his voice is fond, and Brendan has had his phone number-- his cell phone, not his work phone-- for like two months now. Alex says it’s just for emergencies, but he keeps sending Brendan funny cat videos and funny tweets that he finds, which Brendan is fairly certain does not fall under the “work emergency” category.

 

They’re friends. It’s nice. 

 

Brendan is pretty much hopeless when it comes to Alex now-- like, wants to sing terrible romantic 80’s power ballads every time he sees him-- but it’s enough, to just have this. Even if he secretly wants more. 

 

* * *

 

 

Brendan fucking hates Brad Marchand.

 

**_i am going to KILL YOU_ ** he texts as he waits for Chucky in the back room of the magic shop, tapping the buttons with much more force than necessary. 

 

**_lol_** Marchy replies, because he is the biggest douchecanoe on the planet. **_u literally asked for it_**

 

**_I DID NOT ASK FOR YOU TO CURSE MY DICK_ **

 

**_at least i didnt make it fall off!_ **

 

Brendan is the middle of a very explicit text detailing all of the atrocities that he is going to commit on Marchy’s person when Alex comes out of the back room. He smiles at Brendan for a beautiful, glorious moment before he like, reads Brendan’s aura or whatever weird magic shit he does. His face goes through a wide range of complicated emotions-- mortified and amused and concerned-- before he bursts into laughter.

 

“Someone must really hate you,” Alex snickers. His eyes flicker down to stare briefly at Brendan’s crotch before skittering up again to meet Brendan’s eyes. He flushes a little, caught, and it’s so endearingly hot that Brendan would probably be in danger of getting an embarrassing semi if his dick was working properly.

 

Fuck Brad Marchand.

 

“He certainly enjoys my pain and suffering,” Brendan says darkly. Alex’s brow furrows.

 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, concerned. Brendan wants to say yes, because it physically pains him to have Alex, the probably love of his life, be so worried for the state of his dick, but he knows that’s not the kind of hurt that Alex is asking about.

 

“No,” Brendan says grudgingly. “I just can’t get it up anymore.”

 

“Ah,” Alex says delicately. “That’s rough.”

 

“Please tell me you can fix this,” Brendan begs. “Alex. I need you.” Brendan knows he sounds desperate but this is a dire fucking situation; desperation, he thinks, is warranted. 

 

“Jesus,” Alex mutters. He looks at Brendan, eyes unfocusing in a way that Brendan knows now means that he’s reading the patterns of magic that make up Brendan’s curse, trying to figure out the best way to break it. Alex looks a little shaken when he pulls out of it-- shaken enough that Brendan gets nervous.

 

“Alex?” he asks. “Can you fix it?”

 

“I can,” Alex assures, voice low. He hesitates a moment for taking a step forward and reaching up to cradle Brendan’s face in both his giant hands. “Just… trust me, okay?”

 

“Always,” Brendan says with no hesitation. Alex smiles at that, small and genuine. Then he kisses him. 

 

Brendan’s heart almost stops. 

 

Everything about the kiss is soft, even with the calluses on Alex’s hand and the scratch of his beard. Brendan had never really seen the appeal of kissing; it’s nice, yeah, but he always figured it was just a necessary precursor to the good stuff. But this kiss makes him reevaluate everything he’d thought he’d known about kissing-- he could kiss Alex like this for hours. For days. For lifetimes. And God, he hopes he gets to. 

 

For a while it’s all sensation: lips dragging against lips. Hot palms against his cheeks. Being gently steered around until his back is pressed against the edge of the counter. He sighs and melts into it, trying to resist the urge to dry hump Alex’s thigh until he comes…

 

Wait. 

 

“Holy shit,” Brendan whispers. He and Alex are still sharing air, still practically kissing. “You fixed me.”

 

“Obviously,” Alex says dryly, and Brendan realizes that they’re pressed so close together that of course Alex can feel it. That’s… a little embarrassing, honestly. 

 

Especially when he realizes that Alex only kissed him to break the spell.

 

“So what was that?” Brendan asks, trying to keep his voice light. “True love’s first kiss? Is that how you broke the curse?”

 

“That doesn’t exist,” Alex says. “And no… the curse required… uh…”

 

“Just spit it out,” Brendan says. It can’t get worse than it is.”

 

“Uh,” Alex says, looking mortified. “The curse can only be broken by kissing someone you’re attracted to.”

 

Brendan lets that sink in and vows, yet again, to kill Marchy slowly and painfully. Alex didn’t kiss him because he wanted to-- he kissed him because he knew Brendan liked him. He was basically coerced into kissing him. 

 

Brendan feels sick.

 

“I’m sorry!” he blurts. “I’m so sorry. I’m just… I’m just gonna go. I won’t bother you anymore.”

 

Alex catches his wrist before he can get away.

 

“Why are you sorry?” he asks. “Brendan, what’s going on?”

 

“I’m embarrassed,” he says. “And I feel guilty. Both of which are kind of new for me, if I’m entirely honest.” 

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I like you,” Brendan admits. Saying it after feeling it for so long is a relief. “And I wanted to keep seeing you, right? So I… might have asked some of my friends to put some harmless curses on me so I could keep seeing you.”

 

“Oh my God,” Alex says. Brendan can’t read the expression on his face, and isn’t sure he wants to. He’s probably disgusted. 

 

“I know,” Brendan says. “That’s super dumb and shitty. And, full disclosure, I did not ask for this specifically.” He waves around the direction of his crotch. “Brad Marchand is just an asshole.” 

 

Alex says nothing.

 

“And I guess I was apparently super obvious and creepy and I’m sorry-- I didn’t mean to like, force you to kiss me to break a curse. That was really shitty and I’ll just go and leave you alone forever now.” Brendan makes to slink away, but then Alex grabs him by the shoulders kisses him again. Kissing Alex is much preferable to leaving and never seeing him again, so Brendan lets himself sink into, lets himself wrap his arms around Alex the way he’d wanted to earlier. 

 

“I’m getting some mixed signals here,” Brendan says when they break apart, panting a little bit. Alex snorts. 

 

“I like you too, dumbass,” he says. 

 

“Oh!” Brendan says, delighted. “Wait-- you do?”

 

“No, I just kiss random guys I hate all the time.”

 

“Hey, man, I don’t know your life.”

 

“I like you,” Alex says firmly. “I want to date you. You didn’t have to go through all the trouble of getting cursed-- that’s really dumb, by the way, we’re gonna talk about that later. You could have just come back and asked me on a date.” 

 

“That… would have been the appropriate adult response to the situation,” Brendan agrees. He feels a little stupid, but the plan actually was successful, so he’s not too upset about it. “But-- hey! You’re at some blame here too. You totally knew I liked you and didn’t say anything!”

 

Alex turns a bright, bright red under his beard. He looks more embarrassed than Brendan’s ever seen him.

 

“Um,” he says in a small voice. “Actually…”

 

“You didn’t know I liked you,” Brendan realizes. “Oh my God, this is amazing.”

 

“It worked, didn’t it?” Alex says petulantly. “If it hadn’t I would have known you weren’t interested. It did, so I know you are. Way easier than whatever the fuck you’ve been doing for the past six months.” 

 

“We’re both idiots,” Brendan agrees, dragging Alex closer by the belt loops. “But we can talk about that later. Wanna go makeout in the back room until Anna kicks us out?”

 

“God, yes.”

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


A week later, Brad Marchand gets a very large muffin basket-- and a letter containing a very detailed threat on all the curses that will be placed upon him if he ever messes with Brendan Gallagher’s manhood again. Brad snickers, takes a bite out of a muffin, and congratulates himself on a job well done. 

 

He better be invited to their fucking wedding. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
